


Colors

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Other, Painting, TIGHT jeans, activism for Enjolras, and Jehan's help, and colorful t-shirts, and desperation, and singing, because they are adorable, poetry for Jehan, scepticism for R, the beginning of Les Amis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The begining of friendship between the Les Amis, the foundation of the "Friends of ABC". At the beginning they all were a bit of lost. Freindship units, that's what they say. For someone friendship can be transformed into love. But life goes round and round with its problems and difficulties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark blue and Emerald

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> Not sure how I'll end this or if there is any point to make more then 2 chapters, but I enjoy writing about these revolutionaries. We all need friends after all. 
> 
> Oh, and please excuse my English, it is still my second language.

Big, warm water drops fall from sky, washing the maze of Paris’s streets, windows of shops, doors of cafes. The green signboard with white letters, which form the word “Starbucks” looks fresh and new in the rain. Well, after all Starbucks has a strange atmosphere, which always likes a dark haired Art student.

The rain is pouring for a long time. Three days ,actually, and it is like it’s not going to stop. What a pleasant beginning of the summer. 

The inky haired student is called Grantaire and the guy who is working in that particular Starbuck notices his thin figure even in the thick mist and rain. Because this Grantaire sits long hours in the café, ordering espresso from time to time, drawing most of the time while listening the music. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does he makes the boy smiles, and the sad eyes fit his smile. 

And once again Grantaire opens the glass door of the café and steps inside, bringing the whole river with him, because, of course, he has no umbrella. And his Converse are in a complete mess.

Oh, God.

Jehan, the boy behind the café’s coffee machines, rushes to the door. Grantaire notices him and smiles, trying to wipe away the great amount of water in his curls. The café is almost empty, because God knows in such weather a normal person won’t even open a widow, not talking about going outside. And, what is more it has just opened. There are no other waiters yet besides Jehan.

 

“Hello, sir.” Ginger haired Jehan says quietly, feeling himself embarrassed, because of his rush and the fact that he doesn’t even know Grantaire properly. 

 

The Art student shivers slightly as he answers. “Hello. Your excellent espresso can really save my life. And one caramel cappuccino.”

Jehan is smaller than Grantaire, but as skinny as the second man. The Artist’s cloths is untidy and old, but some why his appearance doesn’t look disgustful. He must be looking very good in an expensive suit and tie, but Grantaire has a strange charm with his strange outfit including dark green hoodie, jeans and t-shirt with a picture that Jehan can’t see normally. 

“Cappuccino?” his voice sounds troubled a bit, because Jehan thought he knew Grantaire’s taste.

“Yup.” Grantaire nods, searching for coins in his wet pockets. “And write “Jehan” on a cup.” He adds, looking at the badge on the emerald eyed boy’s t-shirt as gives money.

The amount of blush on Jehan’s cheeks make Grantaire chuckle as he wipes water from his own forehead. “You are just staring at me every time I come here and I don’t understand why, because I’ve seen your boyfriend, so let’s sit near the window and you will tell me your issue.”

Jehan sighs, feeling himself really strange, making coffee to the man with dark blue eyes, wet hair and bitter voice. When the coffee machine after making lots of loud noises finished the process of making cappuccino and espresso, he turns around. “I-I won’t take your money.”

Grantaire’s eyebrow rises. “I know I look like a beggar, but I still can manage to pay for my wine and coffee.”

The coffee maker shakes his head violently. “I didn’t mean that! I…Let it be like a “nice to meet you” from me.”

The tired face of the artist brightens a bit. “As you say.”

They walk to the small table with two chairs and pillows on them. Jehan carefully puts cups and sits opposite. Grantaire grabs his espresso and makes several sips, enjoying the warmth of the liquid. Then he glances at Jehan.

“Okay, nice to meet you, Jehan. I am Grantaire as you probably know, because I’ve been here many times.” 

“Hello, Grantaire, I am Jehan.” He smiles happily as they shake hands.

Grantaire reaches for his backpack and opens it, hoping that it is dry inside. “Here you are.” 

 

Jehan takes a scratch book with hesitation. “It’s for me?”

 

The artist nods, drinking his coffee. 

 

The thin fingers of cappuccino boy open the notebook; his green eye, not just green, but a rare hint of the green color, widen. “It’s me!” he looks through the pages. “Ha, I look silly here. And here! Do I really smile that often?” The tip of his nose becomes pink.

 

Grantaire shrugs. “Maybe just a bit.”

“You draw so good. Oh. Woaw, who is this?” Jehan with his exited voice shows the last page to Grantaire.

 

However, he hasn’t expected such a reaction. The dark haired man grabs the page suddenly and with a great force. His eyes become more darker. “No one.”

 

Jehan feels himself horrible. “I-I am sorry, Grantaire, I..”

 

But the features of the student become less angry and he smiles sadly. “Do forgive me. It wasn’t your fault that I left it there.”

 

The waiter waits for further explanations, but knows that this man more likely won’t tell anything. 

 

“It’s Enjolras. Or Apollo.” He says quietly. 

 

Jehan sits silently thinking about the man called Enjolras. He must be amazing if Grantaire becomes like that when he talk about him, when he draw him so good. That can’t be the only picture of him. The artist sighs and pulls from his backpack other notebooks. “I think I am obsessed with him.”

 

Golden locks, delicate fingers, lips, God, that man has stunning lips, ember, shining, scarily beautiful eyes. Jehan looks up at Grantaire and realizes that this man is deeply unhappy, but finds himself comfortable with that situation. 

 

That explains many things. Why he drinks such a strong espresso without sugar. Jehan wonders how much alcohol Grantaire drinks, because obviously he drinks. Maybe to forget or to feel better. 

 

“Does he…I mean, he, Enjolras is…”

 

“He hates me. Or despise if you don’t like the word “hate”. Well, I despise myself too. I am just a sarcastic bastard in his perfect, idealistic life.” He laughs humourless. “Okay, enough this vanilla, sweet stuff.” He grabs the notebook and grins. A bit falsely, but Jehan accepts that. “You are a Poet, right?”

 

Jehan chokes with his cappuccino and coughs badly. After a moment, when Grantaire helps him, Jehan manages to answer. “How do you know?”

 

Dark blue eyes smiles. “I guessed. But you look like a Poet. At first I thought maybe you are a painter, but then noticed that your fingers are in ink. Just a bit. That makes me think you write a lot. Even at work.” He sips the last drops of his coffee. “But I think you sing too very good. You have a nice voice timbre.” Grantaire suddenly becomes very seriously. “Your boyfriend must be really lucky. I can imagine how your voice sounds when you are whispering your poetic, lighthearted, but full of passion “I love you” in his lips.”

 

Jehan red face contrasts with the green colors of Starbucks, giving Grantaire a thought of Christmas. He laughs and pats his shoulder, leaning to him above the table. “I am sorry, but you are blushing very funny.”

 

Jehan sighs deeply. “It’s 3,69 Euro for you. I’ve changed my mind and you are going to pay for your coffee. And for my cappuccino.”

 

Grantaire chuckles again, but deep in his heart Jehan is happy that this broken man is smiling. He has no idea, who this strange Apollo is, but when he finds him, he will definitely give Enjolras a good punch, for making Grantaire sad.

 

The rain outside the big window slowly faded and even a hint of the sunlight is visible. Artist’s eyes peer there, his gaze lost in the street. “I have to go. Thank you, for…I don’t know..” he looks back at Jehan’s face. “For not looking at me like I am a piece of drunken shit.” The coffee maker some why thinks there is a reference to the Enjolras-guy’s remarks.

 

“You are welcome, Grantaire.” And smiles as the other man gives him a piece of paper from the scratch book with a number on it. 

 

“In case if you need anything.” He pauses. “Don’t freak out, I don’t mean anything bad. You have your boyfriend and I…”

 

“Everyone needs a friend, Grantaire. It’s normal.” Emerald eyes are warm when they meet dark, ice blue.

 

Grantaire winks, stands up, with his backpack on his shoulder and walks to the door, leaving dirty trace on the floor. As his figure disappears in the mist Jehan looks down at the piece of paper.

 

There is a number and in the corner is written a capital letter “R”. He thinks for a while, but then smiles. 

 

He quickly reaches for his phone and calls someone, while walking with two empty cups.

 

“Hello, Courf.” Jehan’s smile is loving and it is one of the most amazing smiles in the worlds. All romantics have charming smiles. “No, I am fine. But I want to ask you something.” He puts the cups in the sink and goes back to collect the notebook, which R has left him. “Have you ever heard about the guy called Enjolras?”

 

He stops so suddenly that he hasn’t even heard a sound of his co-woker, who has just entered and waves to him. “It’s him…” he mutters. “Nothing. But, wait, no everything. Remember I told you about a dark haired Grantaire who visits my café almost every three days.” Jehan bites his lower lip. “I think he is deeply in love with that Enjolras and I want to knock some sense into that guy's head.”


	2. Amber and Grey; Blue and Hazel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's raining here, where I live, so that's why it is pouring heavily in the story.

Jehan quickly tugs his green apron with a label “Starbucks”, says “see you, guys!” and hurries to the entrance, where Courfeyrac is waiting for him. Jehan is feeling very excited, because his boyfriend has told him that he actually knew that golden-haired bastard Enjolras. Coffee-maker wants to find out about the man as much as he can.

As his thin figure appears outside the café, he stumbles and almost falls. “Courfeyrac?”

The dark haired guy with sparkling brown eyes is standing near “Starbucks” in his checked t-shirt and dark blue jeans; a light summer hat is resting on his curls. But near on the bench is sitting another man. The skinny figure and the color of the hair give no mistakes for Jehan to recognize the man from the picture.

“You…” the Poet comes to them, his eyes never leaving another ember ones.

Courfeyrac sighs. “Okay, sweetheart, can you at last explain, what the hell is going on here?” he carefully touches Jehan’s shoulder.

The smaller of three of them answers after a pause, which makes Enjolras uncomfortable. He stands up and uncertainly reaches out his hand to shake Jehan’s. The Poet hesitates, but eventually touches the other man’s hand.

“Jehan. I don’t know what have I done to you, but I’ve read your poetry and it is very good.” Enjolras voice is soft, but Jehan is sure, that when this guy is angry, his voice sounds powerful and terribly beautiful. 

Courfeyrac chuckles quietly as he notices that cheeks of his friend are slowly becoming pink. Jehan just can’t be angry for a long time; it’s against his nature. “Come on people, it’s going to rain again.” He says, patting shoulders of Enjolras and Jehan.

“Do you know a person, named Grantaire?” the Poet asks, walking near Enjolras.

The blond’s head jerks and he turns to ginger haired Jehan. “He has been lying drunk in your café?”

Jehan feels a wave of anger in his chest. “No. He is my friend.”

Enjolras sighs, relax on his face. “Didn’t know he has friends.” His voice sounds so calmly and not caring that Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows before saying.

“I consider myself as his friend.” 

Jehan gasps, protesting. “I’ve asked you about him several times! You said you didn’t know him!”

Courfeyrac bites his lower lip. “I was jealous.” 

Enjolras sighs once again and Jehan rolls his eyes. But then he reaches for his brown bag and opens it, pulling out the scratch book. “Have you seen his pictures? They are masterpieces.”

The golden-haired Apollo glances for a second and then looks away. “Yes, I saw them. And many other. He is good indeed.”

Jehan silently opens his mouth in disbelief; he hasn’t even noticed how Courfeyrac grabbed his hand and tagged him across the crossroad. 

“Why do you hate him? He is a good person.” Jehan’s green, kind eyes reflect the not-understanding of his heart.

Enjolras stops suddenly; his voice dangerously quiet. “I gave him chances too many times before, but he wasted them, caring only for drinking.” He looks straight into green. “And when I said I was tired he just laughed and drank again. He is not capable of anything: of believing, of faith of…”

Courfeyrac glances at Enjolras, warning him, because he notices that Jehan is going to cry. “You love him. I know you do. But it is nothing in compare of how Grantaire loves you.”

Amber eyes smiles sadly. “How do you know that? You know him for several days and I was his friend since school.”

Courfeyrac sighs sadly as he watches Jehan running away. Enjolras tiredly rubs his eyes. “I am sorry, I didn’t want to ruin your date.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “At first I was running after him when he did that, but then realized that he needed to be alone in such moments. I think we all need privacy with our head and heart for a moment once in a while. After that he writes amazing poetry.”

Enjolras shivers a bit as the walk down the street, the wind blowing violently, teasing the clouds full of heavy rain. “What a pity that Jehan hates me. I wish he could join the Society of action. His poetry can inspire people.”

They walk silently for some time. “Tomorrow in Musain I am planning to organize the first meeting. Will you come?”

Courfeyrac nods, reading a message on his iPhone. “He is sorry by the way. And asking me to pick him up, because he is missing me already.” 

Enjolras smiles, letting a couple to go between him and Courfeyrac. “Try to bring him with you.”

“You sound like a sectarian, you know that?” 

Golden haired student smirks. “And tell Jehan that it was nice to meet him actually.” Courfeyrac laughs, typing the reply. “I like people who are fighting for their believes. Jehan’s strange believe in him amazes me.”

“I am sorry, but you a bloody idiot, Enjolras. Grantaire is indeed suffering and…”

“Stop that, please.”

Courfeyrac sighs, knowing that Enjolras always does what he thinks is right. He is almost always right actually, but not in this question. 

Some minutes later they’ve reached Metro and two of them go away, heads full of thoughts. The crowd moves around them just like big deep sea; cold and nonchalant.

 

Enjolras is 21 year old Journalist student, but when you look at him it’s really hard to say that he is not 16. That fact annoys him so much, because many people don’t count him as an adult. But he is smart, his head is full of thoughts and ideas. Enjolras is truly happy that there are other people who support his intensions. Tomorrow he will at last organize an underground student organization. 

The train runs underneath the city, leaving behind everyone who isn’t fast enough to catch its move. The City. Paris. Enjolras, sitting near the window thinks. If he wasn’t living in Paris, would he had such ideas about freedom, about human rights? Is it because of the strange spirit which is instead of air in France? He can’t say. Maybe.

As he exits Metro, Enjolras suddenly feels rain on his face. The library where he has been heading is still far, so he runs quickly, feeling how his cloths becoming wet slowly. But then a crowd of students appears from nowhere, making Enjolras to slow down. He walks through boys and girls, who are chatting happily, telling each other rumors or just stories. Walking, holding hands, laughing because of the rain on their cheeks.

How meaningless. 

The rain is annoying, as well as the noise. His locks are soaking wet and he wants to reach the library at last. To sit with coffee and to write his greeting speech for tomorrow.

But then someone pushes an umbrella in his hands. Enjolras stops suddenly, turning around, trying to catch the sign of the person, whose umbrella he is holding. But in the middle of a colorful, moving, loud crowd it is impossible. After some desperate attempts the Journalist student manages to escape. He opens the umbrella and stands under it, thinking. 

His minds guessed whose umbrella it was. He saw it before. Many moments were spent under that particular umbrella. Too many times. But his heart refuses to accept the fact. He closes his eyes, ignoring a single “R” scratched on an umbrella's handle. 

Slowly, like in a fever Enjolras walks down the street. The will to write a speech has disappeared. He hated that man. He hated himself. 

Enjolras catches a taxi, tells the driver an address, not quiet remembering doing that. And now he is standing near the wooden dark red door. He knocks several times. When the door opens he sighs with relief: a man in glasses smiles to him.

Combeferre is a kind of a person, who understands, when it is good just to be near, without asking questions. He knows Enjolras since school, as well as he knows Grantaire. Ferre always has been something like a wall to both of them, when they were fighting or a comforter, when they were loosing, or a philosopher when one was depressed and another was drunk. 

So he just smiles sadly, letting Enjolras to enter his apartment. Enjolras, shivering from cold silently stays in the corridor. The water drops on the floor with a quite sound. 

“Tea or whiskey?” Ferre asks simply, taking the umbrella from the cold hands of his friend, mentally making a note of its owner. Interesting. 

Enjolras answers, his lips trembling. “Tea.”

Combeferre nods, walking to the kitchen. “Spare cloths are in my bedroom, a towel - in the bathroom.”

The golden haired student tiredly walks to the bathroom, grabs a first-best towel and wipes his hair. But then he simply hides his face in the soft fabric, breathing deeply. 

Ferre pours hot tea in two cups, reaches for biscuits and sits on the chair, waiting for Enjolras. The second one appears in the kitchen several minutes later, with lost gaze and in Comeferre’s t-shirt. 

Enjolras collapses and the chair and grabs a cup, spilling half of the liquid on the table. He closes his eyes. ‘Sorry.”

The Medical student sighs and takes a sip from his own cup. 

The silence falls; neither Ferre, nor Enjolras cares about it.

“I’d like to ask you about tomorrow meeting…” the journalist begins, but as words slip his tongue he realizes that he doesn’t want to speak about that. A biscuit falls on the floor from his hand. “Jesus.”

“Enjolras.”

“I am sorry, I will sweep your floor…”

“Enjolras, look at me.”

He stands up, glancing around, searching for something, until he feels a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Enjolras.”

The ember meets the grey. For a second Enjolras has been all serious, but then something inside betrays him and he leans closer, resting his head on Ferre’s shoulder. Combeferre hugs his friend, holding him tight, just like they were kids again. For him, Enjy always has been like a brother. “Shh, it’s all fine. No matter what it is.”

Enjolras just stands near him, with closed eyes, feeling the soft hair, tickling his neck. “Why does everyone think it is my fault?”

Ferre caresses the blond hair. “They are just confused. Though I am not sure, who these “they” are. Courfeyrac?”

“And his Poet.” He whispers in reply. 

“You are both wrong. And both suffering. Both proud. And regretting. Also fearing. But almost ready to apologize.” 

Enjolras hugs Ferre a bit more, knowing that he is saying the truth. Enjolras does feel himself bad. 

Combeferre lets him go and Enjolras makes a step behind; he is not crying, he is just lost, terribly sad and completely broken. Just like Grantaire is. The only difference between them is that R hides his feeling under the mask of skepticism and cynicism and Enjolras turns his grief into the desire to work, to create, to change the world.

 

On the other side of the Paris it is still raining and there is a person, walking, completely wet and absolutely not caring. He takes out the key as he approaches the building. His green hoodie is so wet that it is hanging heavily on his shoulders. Grantaire opens the door and walks upstairs. When he opens another door, he smiles. It’s warm inside.

“R!!”

Grantaire chuckles. “Hello, kid.”

Gavroche – a 15 year old teenager, has a spare key to Grantaire’s apartment and comes whenever he wants or needs. The older man doesn’t mind. Gavroche always cheers him up a bit.

The blond boy comes from the kitchen with a huge sandwich in his hands. “Oh, shit. I also want to swim.”

Grantaire takes off his Converse and pours water from them on the floor. “Go on. Paris is now an enormous puddle.”

The kid bites his sandwich. “U-m-b-r-e-l-l-a. Haven’t heard about such?”

“Never before.”

Gavroche shakes his head and lets Grantaire to take a bite from his sandwich. “You know, I’d ask you “how are you”, but I think I’ve already known.” He watches his inky haired friend walking to the bath-room and taking off his cloths as he goes.

“Good boy.”

“Your problem is with nice ass and blond hair.”

“Don’t exaggerate yourself kid.” Grantaire answers, wiping his curls.

Gavroche rolls his eyes. “I am not about myself…By the way, I’ve always been wondering.” The blue eyes glance at hazel questioningly. “Why do you allow me to come here?”

“Well, I am a dirty pedophile. So be careful, Gavroche.”

The teenager chuckles, chewing his sandwich. “Of course you are. Can you help me with Math?” he suddenly asks seriously.

Grantaire, standing only in his trousers, glares at him. “Do I look like a person who has any knowledge in Math?”

Gavroche shrugs, watching R’s bare belly. Then looks back at his face. “Probably no, but I also have no idea and two minuses always results in positive meaning.”

Grantaire sighs. He always likes this kid. Maybe because he never says anything when Grantaire is drunk and pissed off or maybe because he always wanted a brother for himself. Or simply a person who loves him, who is like a family for him. One such person abandoned him. So there is only Gavroche left.

“Okay, kid. No guarantees I will do something right, but let’s try. And stop staring at me like that!!”

Gavroche laughs as Grantaire walks to his room, leaving wet footprints on the floor.


	3. Burgund with a hint of gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't checked the spelling, do forgive me(

The Sun carefully peers from the small space between the grey clouds, slowly waking Paris up. 

The ginger haired boy opens his eyes and smiles happily as he realizes that he has been sleeping on the couch, wrapped in an enormously big blanket, hugged by Courfeyrac like if Jehan is his warm teddy bear. 

Jehan yawns and thinks. Courfeyrac is a smart person, who knows what he is doing now and what he is going to do in the future. He jokes, but becomes serious suddenly. The poet turns his head just a bit to watch his friend, sleeping. 

Why does he need me? He can have a nice girl and do lots of things with her…

The poet shakes his head violently, trying not to think about that, but immediately stops, because that can wake Courfeyrac up. 

And instead of that, Courfeyrac is just sleeping, holding Jehan in his hands. The second one has no idea why they are even friends. 

Maybe because they encourage each other; maybe because they are soulmates.

Jehan smiles again, turning on the other side to face Courfeyrac. He actually doesn’t care about the reason. The result is much more important. 

 

Combeferre sits near the open window, watching the city below, watching people, hurrying in their business. He wonders how many of them are waking up happily, how many of them don’t have food for breakfast, how many kids are walking to their classes, with backpacks on their shoulders. He thinks, drinking his strong tea, hoping that everything will be alright.

Ferre hears Enjolras wakes. 

Enjolras glances around and remembers where he is. The student takes a deep breath and stands up from the coach. As he walks to the bath-room, he hears low voices in the kitchen. That makes him stops and listens carefully; then his heart skips one beat.

On Combeferre’s kitchen is Grantaire, quietly talking with Ferre himself. Enjolras closes his eyes.

Of course he would come to Ferre. After all he is his friend too. 

He hesitates, but then suddenly makes a step to the door and opens it. 

Combeferre, sitting on a chair with a creamy mug in his hand, glances at him. Grantaire is sitting on the windowsill with his crossed legs and wild curls on the head. A hint of surprise appears for a second in the ice blue eyes, but only for a second. 

Enjolras’s eyes travel from Ferre to Grantaire and then back to Ferre. “Good morning.” He says to them. His voice and figure shows confidence. Combeferre quietly sighs as he notices that amber eyes betray his friend just for a moment, mimicry the same look in the Artist’s eyes. 

Grantaire is watching the golden haired Apollo with a mix in his glare. Enjolras doesn’t look at him, but feels the artist’s offence, guilt and hesitation. 

“I have to leave, my classes are early today.” Ferre says, standing up. “I have eggs and bacon if someone wants. Please, try not to destroy my kitchen.” He adds with a sigh, then puts the mug in the sink and walks away, carefully closing the door.

Two other men remain in silence. But then speak at the same time and embarrassed, become silent again. 

“I’ll be first.” Enjolras’s voice sounds bitter, but with repentance in his intonation and words.“ I am sorry. And I want to start everything from the beginning. I want to wake up and know that you are near, not somewhere, drunk because of your demons.”

“Because of you.”

Enjolras hides his face in hands. The birds are singing outside and the light wind jumps inside through the opened window. “I want you to be with me.”

And then, Grantaire must answer something sarcastic, because he is Grantaire after all. And then they would hug and kiss and have their moments, ruining Ferre’s kitchen.

 

Combeferre sighs, sitting alone near the open window, looking at the city below, knowing exactly that Enjolras and Grantaire are too stubborn to say a simple “I am sorry”. He drinks last sips of his tea, puts the mug in the sink and walks out of the kitchen, closing the door carefully. As he passes his living-room he watches sleeping Enjolras for a moment. Then shakes his head, searches for a piece of paper and he writes down a note before leaving for his classes.

There are eggs and bacon in the kitchen. Make yourself coffee. Meet you at Musain in 3 p.m  
Ferre

 

Gavroche wakes up suddenly because of the noise of the alarm on his phone. He sits on the bed, looking around a bit of lost as the phone continues making awful noises. He rubs his eyes and jumps out of the bed, trying to figure out where his mobile is ringing. When the kid walks out of the room and nearly knocks down a sleepy figure of Grantaire. 

The Artist is holding the old mobile in his left hand, eyes are almost closed, limbs shivering from the cold.

“How... Why is this bloody thing was under my pillow?” Grantaire’s voice sounds so hoarse, like if he is ill. 

Gavroche chuckles, takes it form Grantaire and walks back to the bed. Well, he tries, but the student grabs his shoulder and stops. 

“That is actually my bed, so go and sleep somewhere else, kid.”

Gavroche evades the grip and runs to the bed. “I don’t remember falling asleep here, so it must you, who deliberately put me on this bed, so…” he falls on the mattress, tugging the blanket. “Excellent pillow, I was sleeping like an angel on it.”

Grantaire sits on the bed and unceremoniously takes the pillow away from Gavroche’s cheek. “The main word is “was sleeping”, get out of here, my neck is hurting like hell.” He pushes the teen away a bit and places himself near with a quiet groan. 

Gavroche yawns and rubs his eyes. “The sheets are smelling good.” He noisily inhales the air. “It’s not your deodorant, so it must be…Oh, shit.”

Grantaire smirks. “You have no idea, what we were doing on this bed.” In his dark eyes appears a dim light, like a distant memory.

The teen remains silent for a second. “I should have guess earlier…Man, it’s not hygienic!!” he stands up quickly. “I am never coming here again, R.”

The artist hugs the pillow and closes his eyes. “Afraid that you will become gay too? Because here even air is so gay.”

“Screw you, pervert. The kid walks away with a sigh. “I have school anyway, so I must go.” He opens a fridge in order to find something eatable. Then with another sigh he closes it. “Okay, see you later.” 

 

The weather in Paris is very strange, like the city itself. One moment it is sunny and warm, everything is so gentle and you want to kiss a beautiful girl, who is selling ice-cream near the bridge. But then that girl looks up at you, her eyes are shining with a mysterious sparkle and you feel that your thoughts are flying away, you can’t forget the time or place where you have met…But then the Weather is just a sarcastic old bastard and sends you rain, which flash all your thoughts away. Mud and water under your feet weep out the memories of the girl and her ice-cream. Cold wind is biting your legs, covered only with shorts. But you are young and the image of the girl with fair hair, pale lips and blue eyes is now deep in your mind.

And then it is cloudy and boring and lazy. Some people find it romantic and poetic. In Paris lives a ginger haired man, who writes when it is cloudy only to wait for the Sun. And when it comes he burns his sad poetry, laughing as the warm lights, tickling his nose and cheeks. There is another man, who comforts him when the Sun is away for a long time. His smile and hugs replace the warmth of the yellow star. His deep brown, chocolate eyes are more thoughtful then the starry night. But they can laugh and shine cheerfully. 

The weather in Paris has an impact on many people. It can inspire to change the society; it can help to find strength to over live one more day, knowing that you are hated by the person you love. It can give and it can take. Strange, that it is all about the Weather and the thoughts it gives.

 

Five hours later after Gavroche left Grantaire’s apartment, the artist wakes up so suddenly and rapidly, like if he was stubbed and hit or fell deep in the water. He sits on the bed, breathing heavily, swallowing air desperately. 

“Jesus…” he matters, rubbing his chest, which is aching badly. Cold sweat appears on his forehead. Grantaire carefully takes several deep breaths and leans against the wall. A sharp pain pins his heart, making him gasping; fingers clench the bed sheet unconsciously; the head falls on the skinny chest. 

His imagination played a wild trick while he was sleeping. He can’t recall about what the dream was, but pieces of it, mad, full of blood and screams for help are still clinging in the corner of his mind. 

Grantaire closes his eyes, but immediately regrets, as a picture, an image from his dream, so vivid and clear like if someone `pauses a movie, appears in front of his eyes. The blond, not breathing, with dead amber eyes, reflecting Death, pale lips and red flag in his hands.

The drunkard stands up jerkily, ignoring the dull pain in his head and chest and rushes to the bath-room. Cold water on his face washes an aftertaste of the dream a bit. 

“I didn’t even drink yesterday…”

The image of those pale lips makes him shiver. Even being dead Enjolras looked so powerful and beautiful. Like a fallen angel or a broken marble statue. 

Tiredly he walks to the kitchen where on the table is standing his laptop. Grantaire turns it own, rubbing his cheek, a thought about food appearing in his mind. Absent-mindedly he glances around, than looks back at the screen. Several minutes later he logs into his facebook account and notices that Enjolras updated his page, posting something about the meeting at 3 p.m. in the Musain. 

Grantaire sits on the table, laptop on his knees, looking at the post. 3 p. m. it’s in two hours. The cynic smiles bitterly, knowing that there, in the meeting, no matter what Enjolras is planning, he, Grantaire, is obviously unnecessary. But he closes his laptop, knowing perfectly that he has no other business today.

 

Café Musain is a strange place. It is made in an old-fashioned style, but some why it looks old for real, like if it has been there, on a small street of Paris for ages. But it gives a good impression. Strange, but good. The atmosphere in burgundy and light brown tones, with a hint of golden. Also creamy and the algum wood. 

The man with dark, almost inky curls is walking behind the young man, who is looking around with interest in his light brown eyes. Freckles make his face looks younger. Grantaire wonders if this guy is searching for Musain. But then the freckled boy turns around and with hesitation says.

“Hello. Excuse me, do you know, where the café …”

“Musain? Absolutely no idea, but I am searching for it too.” Grantaire winks to the man and they walk down the street together. “From where do you know Enjolras?” he suddenly asks.

The student tilts his head. “Enjolras? From my Uni, I think we have some classes together. But I am a Law student and he is…”

“Journalist.” Grantaire answers, his eyes searching the right building.

Marius glances at him, the interest badly hidden in his gaze. “And how about you? By the way, my name is Marius Pontmercy.” He smiles and that smile together with freckles makes Grantaire chuckles. 

“Grantaire. Or just R.” he stops, causing Marius to stumble over his own legs. “I think we have found it.” The artist pints on a small building.

Both of the students watch the place for some moments. “I’d pick McDonalds if I was organizing a meeting.” Marius mumbles as they walk inside. 

But the place isn’t that bad as it looks. It is rather cozy and nice. Near the window is sitting a young man with a laptop on the table, reading something.

“Ferre!” Grantaire waves his hand as he notices the student. 

The second one turns away from his computer and smiles gently, standing up. “Hello. I am Combeferre.” He glances at Marius through his glasses.

Maris smiles in reply and they shake hands. “Marius Pontmercy, nice to meet you…”

His words sink in the noise, caused by two persons, who have just run inside, laughing loudly. Courfeyrac and Jehan with wide grins stop in the middle of a café, making waiters look at them with interest. “Hi, people!” Courfeyrac chuckles as he notices a puzzled face of the freckled boy. Jehan, wearing tight jeans with printed flowers and a big t-shirt (that is surprisingly female-looking one) rushes to Grantaire and hugs him. 

“Hello, Grantaire!” the artist laughs, hugging the poet back. “How are you?”

Courfeyrac makes several steps and stops in front of Marius. “Hey. How are you? I’m Courfeyrac.” He winks at Combeferre and then turns back to Marius. “And that amazing ginger haired person is my boyfriend, so please excuse him when he hugs you every time he meets you in the future. Jehan is just lovely.”

Jehan, with a neat ponytail, drags Grantaire to the company, chatting about bikes and puddles. “Hello!” he smiles sheepishly. “I am Jehan.”

Marius carefully shakes his hand with a boy and looks around these people. Surely all of them have their own history and reasons why they all end up here. But they certainly look like a good company. 

As Marius Pontmercy has been observing his new friends the door opens once again and this time three people walk in: one person looks a bit troubled, like if he is a paranoiac, but an inoffensive one. Another man with black hair, wearing sunglasses, yellow t-shirt and jeans, enters after him. The third one is Enjolras: amber eyes with a huge desire to act, gentle figure, covered in red t-shirt and dark blue jeans. 

Grantaire ignores the pain in his heart. He just smiles, shakes hands with Joly and Bahorel. 

And Combeferre just wants to punch someone. 

The café fills with noises, laughs and talks. Two young girls come to the meeting. The faire hair of the first one makes poor Marius forget how to breathe. Thanks God Courfeyrac has been near and reminded him that it has been a good idea to use lungs again. The second girl with swarthy skin and dark eyes sighs as she notices Marius’s drunken eyes and silly grin. 

Grantaire is sitting in the corner near Jehan, watching Enjolras, who has just started his speech. Everyone is listening him, but something is missing. They are still strangers. Grantaire silently stands up and walks to the bar, trying not to distract the others.

“Can I help you, sir?” the barman asks politely.

“Yes, let me see…” Grantaire looks at the people, sitting around tables. His gaze travels to the girl Cosette, who is sitting on her left leg; to Jehan, who is hugging his knees, to Bahorel, who is leaning against Joly. He thinks of Ferre and Marius. And then turns back and makes his order.

Seven minutes later with an enormously big tray Grantaire walks back to the company. “Terribly sorry for interrupting your amazing speech, Enjolras, but I think drinks are just what everyone needs before the storm, a revolution or a riot or what the other hell you are talking about here.” 

Everyone cheers as he puts the tray on the table. Enjolras watches Grantaire; his mind protests, because starting the meeting with drinking is a bad idea, but his heart agrees with the cynic. These people need to become friends at first. 

“One orange juice for our dear poet.” R passes a glass of juice to Jehan, makes happy sounds as he takes it. “Milkshake for Cosette. And for Marius, because I am not sure if you are allowed to drink alcohol, Pontmercy.” Courfeyrac and Bahorel chuckle as Marius’s cheeks become scarlet. “Espresso with milk and two sugars for Ponine.” The girl raises her eyebrows with a smile on her lips. “Two beers for Bahorel and myself. Irish coffee to Courf.” He laughs as Courfeyrac, grinning like a cat, taking a drink. “Cappuccino for Joly and…” he turns to Enjolras. 

They just look at each other. Grantaire knows exactly what kind of tea likes Enjolras. What the temperature of the water must be. He remembers about the lemon and sugar. He silently gives a cup to the young leader. 

But then Grantaire quickly turns back to the people behind him. “So raise your glass, my friends. Happy barricade or what it is for you, day.” 

Everyone cheers up happily, drinking their cocktails and coffees, saying “woaw!” and “thank you” to the Artist. 

“By the way, have you noticed that almost all of you have tight jeans on. Is it how Enjolras made you come here?” the cynic takes a sip of his beer. “Because he looks nice in his jeans.” 

Courfeyrac laughs, commenting Marius’s outfit and Cosette smiles, watching the freckled boy.

Grantaire sits on the nearest chair and suddenly feels the gaze upon himself. “How do you suppose me to talk with them about the Human Rights after this?” Enjolras nods on a laughing group of people. “What the hell have you been thinking about?”

The artist sighs. 

“And just to let you know. It’s only you, who come here because of tight jeans. They have beliefs and hopes and you…” Enjolras becomes silent as Grantaire’s blue eyes look at his.

“I get it. I am going away, stop shouting at me.” He stands up. “Sorry, for trying to help you.”

He walks to the door, not looking back, unnoticed by the others.

Grantaire walks alone, without caring where he is going. The look of Apollo simply broke him. The drunkard gives up. He just can’t. Grantaire changes for Enjolras, starts drinking less, really tries to believe in all the stuff the golden haired student has been talking about. 

But Enjolras doesn’t need him. His ember eyes are so cold. 

And Grantaire wishes he died instead of Enjolras in his dream.

He ends up in a park. There is a bench and Grantaire sits on it tiredly. The park is beautiful and if you close your eyes and remain silent and still for some minutes, than all the sounds, smells and colors become at one big image of the summer. Such a strange feeling. 

The artist opens his eyes. Near the bench on which he is sitting is laying a metal rod with a sharp end. Maybe here were repair works recently or something else, but the rod is laying near Grantaire’s feet. He looks at it for some long minutes. 

Then with a strange thoughts in his head he picks up. Then carefully takes it like if it is a pen. The sharp end scratches the pale skin on Grantaire’s wrist. Moment later an oily, venous drop of blood appears. The cynic smiles sadly as he feels the pain.

When something is hurting very much you can harm another part of your body, then the pain will go there and you forget about the previous one. Grantaire presses the rod harder and writes a letter, then another one.

Now blood is streaming down his right wrist. He is just looking at it, feeling the pulsation. The bloody word “Sorry” is scratched. Grantaire wonders how dirty his “pen” is and is it possible to get a blood infection. He hopes that it is possible. The blood makes a red ornament on his hand which looks beautiful under the bright lights of the Sun.

Suddenly he feels himself a bit of dizzy. Grantaire only smirks, not really surprised. 

Silly. It was silly to hope that he will find you and see your apologize, Grantaire. His own consciousness comments. 

I know. I just want to die. He simply replies. 

He hates himself for being so pathetic.

“What on Earth you think you are doing??”

Only the timbre of that voice makes the broken artist and cynic open his eyes.


End file.
